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  Chapter II

  Monsieur

  "La destinee a deux manieres de nous briser; en se refusant a nos desirs et en les accomplissant."

  To some the night brings wiser or at all events a second counsel. Formyself, however, it has never been so. In the prosecution of suchsmall enterprises as have marked a life no more eventful than thosearound it, I have always awakened in the morning of the same mind as Iwas when sleep laid its quiet hand upon me. It seems, moreover, that Ihave made just as many as but no more mistakes than my neighbours.Taking it likewise as a broad generality, the balance seems, in myexperience, to tell quite perceptibly in favour of those who make uptheir minds and hold to that decision firmly, rather than towards suchmen as seek counsel of the multitude and trim their sail to the tamebreeze of precedent.

  "Always go straight for a jump," my father had shouted to me once,years ago, while I sat up in a Norfolk ditch and watched my horsedisappear through a gap in the next hedge.

  I awoke on the morning after the centenary fetes without any doubt inmy mind--being still determined to seek a situation for which I wasunfitted.

  Having quarrelled with my father, who obstinately refused to pay a fewdebts such as no young man living in London could, with self-respect,avoid, I was still in the enjoyment of a small annual income left tome by a mother whom I had never seen--upon whose grave in the old,disused churchyard at Hopton I had indeed been taught to lay a fewflowers before I fully realised the meaning of such tribute. That myirate old sire had threatened to cut me off with as near an approachto one shilling as an entail would allow had not given me muchanxiety. The dear old gentleman had done so a hundred times before--asearly, indeed, as my second term at Cambridge, where he hadconsiderably surprised the waiter at the Bull by a display of honestBritish wrath.

  It was, in all truth, necessary that I should do something--shouldfind one of those occupations (heavily salaried) for which, I make nodoubt, as many incompetent youths seek to-day as twenty-five yearsago.

  "What you want," John Turner had said, when I explained my position tohim, "is no doubt something that will enable a gentleman to live likea lord."

  Now, Monsieur de Clericy was probably prepared to give two hundredpounds a year to his secretary. But it was with Mademoiselle--and Idid not even know her Christian name--that I was anxious to treat.What would she give?

  It was, I remember, a lovely morning. What weather these Napoleonshad, from Austerlitz down to the matchless autumn of 1870!

  The address printed in the corner of Monsieur de Clericy's card wasunknown to me, although I was passably acquainted with the Parisstreets. The Rue des Palmiers was, I learnt, across the river, and, myinformant added, lay between the boulevard and the Seine. This was apart of the bright city which Haussmann and Napoleon III had as yetleft untouched--a quarter of quiet, gloomy streets and narrow alleys.The sun was shining on the gay river as I crossed the bridge of theHoly Fathers, and the water seemed to dance and laugh in the morningair. The flags were still flying, for these jolly Parisians are alwaysloth to take in their bunting. It was, indeed, a gay world in which Imoved that morning.

  The Hotel Clericy I found at the end of the Rue des Palmiers, whichshort street the great house closed. Indeed, the Rue des Palmiers wasbut an avenue of houses terminated by the gloomy abode of theClericys. The house was built behind a high stone wall broken only bya railed doorway.

  I rang the bell and heard its tinkle far away within the dwelling. Acovered way led from the street to the house, and I followed on theheels of the servant, a smart young Parisian, looking curiously at thelittle garden which in London would have been forlorn and smutty. Herein Paris bright flowers bloomed healthily and a little fountainplashed with that restful monotony which ever suggests the patios ofSpain.

  The young man was one of those modern servants who know theirbusiness.

  "Monsieur's name?" he said, sharply.

  "Howard."

  We were within the dimly lighted hall, with its scent of old carpetsand rusting armour, and he led the way upstairs. He threw open thedrawing-room door and mentioned my name in his short, well-trainedway. There was but one person in the large room, and she did not hearthe man's voice; for she was laughing herself, and was at that momentchasing a small dog around the room. The little animal, which enteredgaily into the sport, was worrying a dainty handkerchief in his teeth,and so engaged was he in this destructive purpose that he ran straightinto my hands. I rescued the bedraggled piece of cambric and stoodupright to find mademoiselle standing before me with mirth and acertain dignified self-possession in her eyes.

  "THANK YOU, MONSIEUR," SHE SAID, TAKING THEHANDKERCHIEF FROM MY HAND.]

  "Thank you, Monsieur," she said, taking the handkerchief from my hand.It was evident that she did not recognise me as the stranger who hadaccosted her father on the previous day.

  I explained my business in as few words as possible.

  "The servant," I added, "made a mistake in bringing me to this room. Idid not mean to trouble Mademoiselle; my business is with M. deClericy. I am applying for the post of secretary."

  She looked at me with a quick surprise, and her eyes lighted on myclothes with some significance, which made me think that perhapsMonsieur de Clericy gave less even than two hundred pounds a year tohis amanuensis.

  "Ah!" she said, with her thought apparent in her candid eyes. "Myfather is at present in his study--engaged, I believe, with MonsieurMiste."

  "Miste?" I echoed, for the name was no less peculiar than her way ofpronouncing it. She seemed to look for some sign that I knew this man.

  "Yes--your predecessor."

  "Ah! a secretary--a man-machine that writes."

  She shook her head with a happy laugh, sinking, as it were, into anair of interest, which gave a sharp feeling that I had perhaps beenforestalled in other matters by the man called Miste. She looked atme with such candid eyes, however, that the thought seemed almost asacrilege, offered gratuitously to innocence and trustfulness. Herface was, indeed, a guarantee that if her maiden fancy had beentouched, her heart was at all events free from that deeper feelingwhich assuredly leaves its mark upon all who suffer it.

  The name of Monsieur de Clericy's former secretary in some way gratedon my hearing, so that instead of retiring from the presence ofmademoiselle as my manners bade me do, I lingered, seeking opportunityto continue the conversation.

  "I do not wish to intrude on Monsieur de Clericy," I said. "It isperhaps inexpedient that the new machine should be seen of the old."

  Mademoiselle laughed, and again I caught the deep silver note ofsympathy in her voice that was so new and yet familiar. In laughterthe soul surely speaks.

  "The word scarcely describes Monsieur Miste," retorted she.

  "Does any single word describe him?"

  For a moment she reflected. She was without self-consciousness, andspoke with me, a stranger, as easily as she talked to her father.

  "A single word?" she echoed. "Yes--a chimera."

  At this moment the sound of voices in the corridor made further delayimpossible.

  "Perhaps Mademoiselle will allow me to ring for the servant to conductme to Monsieur de Clericy's study," I said.

  "I will show you the room," replied she; "its door is never closed tome. I hear voices, which probably betoken the departure of MonsieurMiste."

  The sound, indeed, came distinctly enough to our ears, but it was ofone voice only, the benevolent tones of the Vicomte de Clericy,followed by his pleasant laugh. If Miste made reply, the words musthave been uttered softly, for I heard them not. I opened the door, andmademoiselle led the way.

  A man was descending the broad staircase which I had lately mounted--aslim man, who stepped gently. He did not turn, but continued his way,disappearing in the gloom of the large entrance hall. I gathered aquick impression of litheness and a noiseless footfall, of a sleek,black head, and something stirring within me, which was stronger thancuriosity. I wondered why he was quitting the Vicomte's servi
ce. Suchwas my first sight of Charles Miste, and my first knowledge of hisexistence.

  The Vicomte had returned to his room, closing the door behind him,upon which mademoiselle now tapped lightly.

  "Father," I heard her say as she entered, "a gentleman wishes to seeyou."

  As I passed her, I caught the scent of some violets she wore in herdress, and the spring-like freshness of the odour seemed a part ofherself.

  The Vicomte received me so graciously that he and not I might havebeen the applicant for a situation. Bowing, he peered at me withshort-sighted eyes.

  "The English gentleman of yesterday," he said, indicating a chair.

  "I took you at your word, Monsieur," I replied, "and now apply for thepost of secretary."

  Taking the chair he placed at my disposal, I awaited his furtherpleasure. He had seated himself at the writing-table, and wasfingering a pen with thoughtfulness or perhaps hesitation. The table,I noticed, was bare of the litter which usually cumbers the desk of abusy man. The calendar lying at his elbow was an ornamental cardboardtrifle, embellished with cupids and simpering shepherdesses--such asgirls send to each other at the New Year. The surroundings, in fact,were indicative rather of a trifling leisure than of importantaffairs. The study and writing-table seemed to me to suggest apleasant fiction of labours, to which the Vicomte retired when hedesired solitude and a cigarette. I wondered what my duties might be.

  After a pause, the old gentleman raised his eyes--the kindest eyes inthe world--to my face, and I perceived beneath his white lashes agreat benevolence, in company with a twinkling sense of humour.

  "Does Monsieur know anything of the politics of this unfortunatecountry?" he asked, and he leant forward, his elbows on the barewriting-table, his attitude suggesting the kind encouragement which agreat doctor will vouchsafe to a timid patient. The old Frenchman'smanner, indeed, aroused in me that which I must be allowed to call myconscience--a cumbrous machine, I admit, hard to set going and soonrunning down. The sport of this adventure, entered into in a spirit ofdevilry, seemed suddenly to have shrunk to the dimensions of asomewhat sorry jest. It was, I now reflected, but a poor game todeceive an innocent girl and an old man as guileless. Innocence is agreat safeguard.

  "Monsieur," I answered, on the spur of the moment, "I have no suchqualities as you naturally seek in a secretary. I received myeducation at Eton and at Cambridge University. If you want a secretaryto bowl you a straight ball, or pull a fairly strong oar, I am yourman, for I learnt little else. I possess, indeed, the ordinaryeducation of an English gentleman, sufficient Latin to misread anepitaph or a motto, and too little Greek to do me any harm. I have,however, a knowledge of French, which I acquired at Geneva, whither myfather sent me when I--er--was sent down from Cambridge. I have againquarrelled with my father. It is an annual affair. We usually quarrelwhen the hunting ends. This time it is serious. I have henceforth tomake my way in the world. I am, Monsieur, what you would call a badsubject."

  The tolerance with which my abrupt confession was received only mademe the more self-reproachful. The worst of beginning to tell the truthis that it is so hard to stop. I could not inform him that I hadfallen in love with a tone in his daughter's voice, with a light inher eyes--I, who had never made serious love to any woman yet. Hewould only think me mad.

  There were in truth many matters with which I ought to have made theVicomte acquainted. My quarrel with my father, for instance, hadoriginated in my refusal to marry Isabella Gayerson--a young lady withlanded estates and a fortune of eighty thousand pounds. I merelyinformed Monsieur, I confess, that my father and I had fallen out overmoney matters. Cannot most marriages arranged by loving parents be sodescribed? To my recitation the old gentleman listened with muchpatience, and when I had partially eased my soul he merely nodded,saying:

  "My question is not yet answered, mon ami. Do you know aught of Frenchpolitics?"

  "Absolutely nothing," was my answer, made in all honesty. And Ithought I was speaking my own dismissal.

  Monsieur de Clericy leant back in his chair with a shrug of theshoulders.

  "Well," he muttered, half to himself, "perhaps it is of littleconsequence. You understand, Monsieur," he continued in a louder tone,looking at me kindly, "I like you. I may say it without impertinence,because I am an old man and you are young. I liked you as soon as Isaw you yesterday. The duties for which I require a secretary arelight. It is chiefly to be near me when I want you. I have my littleestates in the South, in the Bourbonnais, and near to Orleans. Irequire some one to correspond with my agents, to travel perhaps to mylands when a question arises which the bailiffs cannot settleunaided."

  Thus he spoke for some time, and my duties, as he detailed them,sounded astonishingly light. Indeed, he paused occasionally as ifseeking to augment them by the addition of trivial household tasks.

  "Madame, the Vicomtesse," he said, "will also be glad to avail herselfof your services."

  The existence of this lady was thus made known to me for the firsttime. I have wondered since why, in this conversation, we with oneaccord ignored the first question in such affairs--namely, the salarypaid by Monsieur to his secretary.

  "I should require you," he said finally, "to live in the Hotel Clericywhile we are in Paris."

  Some years earlier, during a hunting expedition in Africa, I hadstalked a lion all night and far into the following day. On finallyobtaining a sight of my prey, I found him old, disease-stricken andhalf-blind. The feelings of that moment I have never forgotten. Asensation near akin to it--a sort of shame attaching to a pursuitunworthy of a sportsman--came to me again now, when I was told that Imight live under the roof that sheltered Mademoiselle de Clericy.

  "You hesitate," said the Vicomte. "I am afraid it is an essential. Imust have you always at hand."